Eleanor sits up in bed. Of course! She’ll take the watercolour with her, give herself a new identity. She’ll pretend to be the owner of an Oxford art gallery. She can ask, if indeed Moira had painted it, whether she’d sign it. A few brief moments with the woman is all she’ll need she make sure of her identity…
Eleanor falls asleep towards dawn. A dream troubles her. The Daimler stops outside the villa. The woman in it rolls down the window, reaches out a hand to touch Eleanor’s shoulder. “I’ve something to tell you.” Her voice is soft, her face hidden by the veil. “It’s most important. It can’t wait.”
Felix emerges from behind the car. Eleanor gasps with surprise and joy. He kisses her cheek, lifts her hand to his lips. “Mama’s message,” he says, “is for me.”
Eleanor jolts awake, her head aching, her heart lonely, tears pricking her eyes. If only Felix were in bed beside her…
She eats breakfast before Anne comes down, leaving a note propped on her mother’s coffee cup.
Gone for an early walk before it gets too hot. See you at luncheon. Love E
She tucks the watercolour under her arm. It’s half-past eight. She aims to be at Cinq Saisons by nine, hopefully before anyone has left.
As she reaches the villa, from among the depths of pine trees she hears a distant church bell chime the hour. She waits until its echoing clangs fade. Then she presses the button, watching as the iron gates swing open. She marches up the drive.
The villa looms ahead of her, with its pale grey stone and arched windows, and a feeling of deep peace. She notices beds filled with scented flowers, and in the distance a gardener stooping over his spade.
Without her having to ring another bell, the front door opens. A maid stands waiting: small, young, neat in her cap and apron.
Trying to quell her nerves, Eleanor speaks a halting French. “Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you so early—”
“Good morning, Mademoiselle. Not at all.”
“May I have a word with Madame Tessier? I collect paintings.” Eleanor holds out her watercolour, swiftly unwrapping it. “This is by her, isn’t it?”
The maid glances at it. “Yes, indeed. That’s Madame’s work… It’s clever of you to find her. She never lets anybody know she’s an artist.”
“Then may I—”
“Alas, no. I’m so sorry. Monsieur and Madame Tessier are not at home.”
Eleanor’s jaw drops. “But I saw Madame leaving the villa yesterday. And Monsieur Tessier, in his bath-chair, with a nurse—”
“Indeed. He goes out every afternoon. But he’s not well. He and Madame have gone to Germany, to take the waters at Baden-Baden. They left yesterday evening.”
Eleanor’s mouth tastes bitter with disappointment. “When will they be back?”
“Not until August or September. It will depend on what the doctors advise.”
Tears of frustration burn Eleanor’s eyes. “I need to see Madame urgently. I want her to sign my watercolour. I’d love to have more of her work for my gallery.”
The maid smoothes her skirt. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“No, that won’t be good enough. I’m leaving for England myself.” She looks over the maid’s shoulder into a marble-tiled hall. An enormous mirror reflects a vase of lilies whose cloying scent drifts out to her. “But if I write Madame a letter and leave it with a small parcel, would you make sure she gets them on her return?”
Back in her room, Eleanor grabs a piece of hotel notepaper. She writes as fast as her shaking hand will allow.
AS FROM: 20 High Street Woodstock Oxfordshire England
3 June 1936
Dear Madame Tessier
I was devastated to hear that you and your husband had left for Baden-Baden. I have travelled to Juan-les-Pins expressly to find you, and to return these letters to your safe keeping.
My father, Walter Drummond, died in an accident in January. Just before his death, he begged me to find you. Now, it seems I’ve gone some small way towards doing so. Luckily, The Provençal and Sur la Plage have some of your watercolours, though neither of them gave away your identity. I know that as a painter you wish to remain anonymous.
I should love us to meet. When you get this letter, would you write to me? Felix has told me a lot about you. But not enough. I found these letters in your bureau in The Hideaway. Nobody else knows about them, not even Felix. I’m sorry if I’ve intruded on your private life.
I shan’t tell Felix I’ve found you until you give me express permission to do so. Knowing you are alive will give him the greatest joy.
Yours
Eleanor Drummond
Eleanor puts the note on the bundle of Pierre’s letters, takes the lift down to reception and asks for a large envelope. She addresses it, labels it STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL, asks the receptionist to stamp it with sealing wax. Then she hurries back to the villa. The same young maid opens the door. Eleanor makes her promise that nobody but Madame will see the package, that it will be safely hidden until her return. The maid gives a bob of curtsey.
Eleanor stands at the end of the drive as the gates of Cinq Saisons clang behind her. The midday sun beats from a blinding white sky. Heat from the ground burns up into her face, making her limbs throb, her forehead drip with sweat. Above her tower the pine trees, still and silent in the heavy air.
She has done everything she can. Now she must be patient. But she won’t wait for ever. She’ll give Moira until the end of August to reply. If she hasn’t heard from her by then, she’ll write to Felix. Tell him how much she has managed to achieve.
No, she hasn’t actually met Moira or managed to speak to her. But she has proved that Felix’s mother is still alive. Eleanor owns one of her paintings. In her bedroom it’ll be a constant reminder of Moira’s existence. The expedition to Juan-les-Pins hasn’t been a wild-goose chase.
Eleanor bites her lip. She tries to stop imagining how, if she’d arrived only one day earlier, she might have had that precious conversation with Moira, really begun to find out about that storm-filled day in St Ives. That dialogue might never happen. Indeed, Eleanor might never get an answer to her letter… She’ll face that possibility once she’s back in Woodstock.
She takes off her sun hat, rakes her fingers through her hair. It’s damp with sweat and frustration. She starts to walk down the hill towards the sea. Now, she craves Woodstock’s cooler days, the freshness of its twilights and its frosty nights.
And, of course, and now more than ever, to see her lover again.
The Naming
Woodstock, 1936
June flashes by in a whirlwind of activity, heralded by the arrival of a substantial sum of money into Eleanor’s business account.
Her delight and excitement – and her pleasure at seeing the relief on Anne’s face – are tempered by the knowledge that Felix can move into The Hideaway, now officially his. In her room, at her desk, Eleanor holds its keys, gazing at them, wondering whether he’ll keep his promise and invite her to visit – and imagining ever more clearly as the days go by what he might say if he knew she’d found his mother.
But she’s too busy to brood. She writes to Felix, telling him they’d had an enjoyable holiday and giving him the date for the tea-room’s opening. For several weeks the Woodstock house is flung once again into chaos, as the decorators finish work on the first and second floors, and spruce up the exterior paintwork. Builders install a downstairs cloakroom. Dirt flies everywhere; dust follows. Plumbers and electricians arrive, bringing a lavatory, a hand-basin, taps, and terracotta tiles for the cloakroom floor. A safe is installed in Eleanor’s bedroom.
Anne, deciding she’s better off out of the noise and dust, disappears with relief to Giffen Antiques. At first, she tells Eleanor, she was too scared to do anything but watch Jonny, get to know his stock, and make tea. Wh
en he gives her money at the end of the week, she spends it at the dressmaker, telling Eleanor she can hardly wait for Monday afternoon.
Relieved to see her mother happily occupied, Eleanor concentrates on her own plans. She meets her new accountant. After consulting Kathleen, she chooses local suppliers of fresh produce, discussing her requirements and their prices.
Jonny helps her buy new furniture. They drive to a warehouse near Banbury to find six round tables and twenty-four comfortable wooden chairs, as well as accessories for the tea-room. Eleanor’s excitement quickens with each day. She discusses the menu and price list with Vera. Jonny takes a photo of the tea-room. Eleanor gives both the list and photo to her Oxford printer, together with copy for a handbill announcing the tea-room’s opening. She and Jonny plan to push it through every letterbox in Woodstock during the last weekend in June.
With Anne’s agreement, Eleanor calls the tea-room Eleanor’s. A local craftsman makes a sign to hang above the door. Interested neighbours gather in the High Street to watch it being fixed into place.
Anne squeezes Eleanor’s hand. “Your father would have been proud of you.”
Tears sting Eleanor’s eyes. It’s the first time her mother has mentioned Walter in many weeks.
On the night before the tea-room’s opening, Eleanor unhooks Felix’s painting from above her bed and staggers downstairs with it. She hangs it in prime position in the tea-room. In the better light, it seems more marvellous than ever. Eleanor notices the delicate lines Felix has traced around her father’s eyes, and how he’s captured the set of his shoulders, the determined thrust of his chin. The colours of the portrait sing against the smooth cream of the wall.
Eleanor has just finished hanging the portrait and jumped down from the chair when Anne walks into the room. She looks straight at the painting.
“That’s not your father’s work, is it?”
“No.” Eleanor’s face feels flame hot.
“Who’s it by? Who’s that, sitting behind your father?” Anne looks at Eleanor. “Who painted that portrait?”
“Felix Mitchell.” Beads of sweat crawl down Eleanor’s neck like flies on a horse’s nose. “He’s an accomplished portrait painter.”
“Is he indeed!” Anne inspects Eleanor’s face as if she’s looking for telltale signs of measles. “Tell me, Eleanor. Did you get to know him well, this Mitchell fellow?”
Eleanor walks rapidly to the window to flick at the new chintz curtains, hiding her face from Anne’s much-too-curious gaze. “Not particularly. We didn’t have time to become more than acquaintances.”
“Hmm.” Anne gives her a suspicious look. “I’m relieved to hear it…You wouldn’t want to get mixed up with Felix Mitchell on a personal level, now, would you?”
Eleanor wakes on the morning of the tea-room’s opening feeling scared. She’s checked everything a hundred times: the sparkling kitchen with its shining pots and pans; the new cloakroom; the tea-room with its elegant tables and chairs; the fresh white roses in each of the vases; the sugar bowls and menus; the new wooden till.
Today she and Vera will become a professional working team. Anne, whose interest in the venture has grown, agrees to hover in the background during the morning in case of emergency. Now, all Eleanor needs is customers…
The postman hands her a bundle of bills. She takes them indoors, intending to open them at the day’s end. But she recognises one of the envelopes. Felix has sent her a handmade card. On the front is a tiny black-ink sketch of her, standing on the St Ives’ harbour in her raincoat, looking out to sea: her hair windswept, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes full of laughter. Its likeness is breathtaking.
Inside, Felix has written:
To my one and only Eleanor—
Good luck for your grand opening! Wish I could be with you, but I’m renovating The Hideaway: tiny new bathroom upstairs, freshly painted studio, wonderful new skylight, lots of clean white paint. Exhausting but rewarding. Hope to see you when the chaos has subsided. Don’t work too hard. And don’t stop thinking about me.
All my love
Felix
Eleanor slips the card into her apron pocket. It sits there, brushing against her thigh, giving her encouragement, making her feel loved. She longs to write to Felix telling him she’s found his Mama – except she’d promised Moira she’d only do so with her permission. It’s another promise Eleanor intends to keep.
That morning at ten o’clock, Eleanor and Vera look at each other, smile anxiously – and open the tea-room door. Nothing happens. There’s nobody in the street. The silence and lack of interest are frightening. Eleanor prays somebody will come in. She wants to rush outside shouting, “We’re giving free coffee to our first customers.”
“Be patient, dear heart.” Vera straightens her spotless apron. “They’ll come flooding in by lunchtime, you’ll see.”
A figure appears at the end of the street. Then another. Rosie Perkins and a friend march past with their noses in the air. Rosie talks loudly about people who are too poor to do anything but sell their own breakfasts.
Vera looks at Eleanor’s face and pulls her inside. “Never listen to mindless tittle-tattle. It’s a waste of God’s good time.”
Vera’s right. An hour of nerve-wracking patience pays off. At eleven o’clock a family of four arrive, closely followed by an elderly couple. By lunchtime the tea-room is crammed. Eleanor closes its doors at five o’clock, exhausted but triumphant. She hugs Vera, tells Anne she knew she could do it, and shakes Jonny’s hand.
Anne opens a celebratory bottle of wine. “I hardly slept last night for worrying,”
“You should’ve had faith in me from the start,” Eleanor scolds. “Fresh scones, pungent coffee, fragrant tea… How could we fail?”
But Eleanor accepts and drinks her glass of wine with a glad heart. Her happiness is clouded only by the fact Felix cannot witness her success. Later that evening she hides his card in her desk. Words on paper: beautiful, poignant, memorable – but when all is said and done, only words.
When will she see him again?
Part Five
Peter Pan
Fishery Cottage, 1936
The following Wednesday evening, at the end of Eleanor’s first week in the tea-room, she goes to see Kathleen. Her feet are sore but her sense of triumph is overwhelming. Kath meets her in the Fishery Cottage garden and flings out her arms.
“Congratulations, Ellie! You’ve opened your doors to the demandin’ public! How did it go?”
Eleanor hugs her friend. Flopping into a deckchair, she describes the opening day. “It’s exhausting, but because it’s my enterprise, it feels worthwhile. I work like a trooper, but for myself, not for anyone else.”
“Is your mother pleased?”
“I think she’s rather proud of me. Of course, I’ve got a long way to go. At the moment everything’s new and exciting. Customers are trying us out. They may or may not come back. I hope they will, but I’m sure we’ll have days when the tea-room’s empty and I’ll wonder what I’m doing with my life!”
“You’ll never guess what I’ve been doin’ with mine!”
“Forgive me, Kath… I haven’t even asked how you are.”
“I’ve been entertainin’ royalty.”
“What?”
“It’s been top secret in case the press got hold of it. The king and Wallis Simpson came to Blenheim Palace for a long weekend. Ernest Simpson came with ’em, though he slept in a separate room. There were other guests, too, very distinguished ones. Winston Churchill and his wife, Clementine. Lady Emerald Cunard, Duff and Diana Cooper, the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch… It were hard work, but I think the Duke and Mary Marlborough were happy with everythin’.”
“How exciting, Kath! How did your guests spend the weekend?”
“We organised a picnic for ’em o
n the lake by Rosamond’s Well. The king played the bagpipes after dinner, although Wallis asked him to stop. They danced in the Long Library, had drinks on the terrace, ate the best food Blenheim could offer… I heard Mary Marlborough sayin’ she liked Wallis Simpson!”
“Did you see her, Kath?”
“I did, several times. She were always very well turned-out, in her high heels, tight-fittin’ frocks, expensive jewellery. Her voice is hard as nails, but Edward, he hangs on every word. But Ellie… You must promise not to tell another livin’ soul. There were a secret reason for the weekend’s fun and games. Wallis is divorcin’ her husband. Edward insists, and he offered Ernest a lot of money for her.”
“So now the king has bought somebody else’s wife!”
“Edward intends to marry Wallis if it’s the last thing he does… I looked at the visitors’ book after they’d all signed it. Edward has taken the left-hand page to himself. On the right-hand side, everyone else has put their signature. Wallis placed hers at the top. She comes first with Edward. She doesn’t care who knows it. Neither does he.”
Eleanor looks across the grass at her friend. “But you don’t believe we’ll have a Queen Wallis next year?”
“Can’t see it happenin’ myself. The church, the establishment, the government… None of ’em will allow it.” Kathleen shivers. “It’s gettin’ chilly. Come inside and let’s eat. By the way, did I tell you what Wallis calls the King when he can’t hear her?”
“I can’t imagine.”
The Choice Page 28